Category Archives: Robert Arthur Reeves

The Wreck of the Deutschland (2)

Here comes the whole poem for you to read through.  See the previous entry for Hopkins’ advice about how to read it, but the main thing is to read it aloud.  Don’t stop for mysteries, keep on to the end.

The Wreck of the Deutschland by Gerard Manley Hopkins


To the

happy memory of five Franciscan nuns

exiles by the Falck Laws

drowned between midnight and morning of

Dec. 7th, 1875


part the first



            Thou mastering me

         God! giver of breath and bread;

      World’s strand, sway of the sea;

         Lord of living and dead;

   Thou hast bound bones and veins in me, fastened me flesh,

   And after it almost unmade, what with dread,

      Thy doing:  and dost thou touch me afresh?

Over again I feel thy finger and find thee.



            I did say yes

         O at lightning and lashed rod;

      Thou heardst me truer than tongue confess

         Thy terror, O Christ, O God;

   Thou knowest the walls, altar and hour and night:

   The swoon of a heart that the sweep and the hurl of thee trod

      Hard down with a horror of height:

And the midriff astrain with leaning of, laced with fire of stress.



            The frown of his face

         Before me, the hurtle of hell

      Behind, where, where was a, where was a place?

         I whirled out wings that spell

   And fled with a fling of the heart to the heart of the Host.

   My heart, but you were dovewinged, I can tell,

      Carrier-witted, I am bold to boast,

To flash from the flame to the flame then, tower from the grace to the grace.



            I am soft sift

         In an hourglass—at the wall

      Fast, but mined with a motion, a drift,

         And it crowds and it combs to the fall;

   I steady as a water in a well, to a poise, to a pane,

   But roped with, always, all the way down from the tall

      Fells or flanks of the voel, a vein

Of the gospel proffer, a pressure, a principle, Christ’s gift.



            I kiss my hand

         To the stars, lovely-asunder

      Starlight, wafting him out of it;  and

         Glow, glory in thunder;

   Kiss my hand to the dappled-with-damson west:

   Since, tho’ he is under the world’s splendour and wonder,

      His mystery must be instressed, stressed;

For I greet him the days I meet him, and bless when I understand.



            Not out of his bliss

         Springs the stress felt

      Nor first from heaven (and few know this)

         Swings the stroke dealt—

   Stroke and a stress that stars and storms deliver,

   That guilt is hushed by, hearts are flushed by and melt—

      But it rides time like riding a river

(And here the faithful waver, the faithless fable and miss).



            It dates from day

         Of his going in Galilee;

      Warm-laid grave of a womb-life grey;

         Manger, maiden’s knee;

   The dense and the driven Passion, and frightful sweat:

   Thence the discharge of it, there its swelling to be,

      Though felt before, though in high flood yet—

What none would have known of it, only the heart, being hard at bay,



            Is out with it!  Oh,

         We lash with the best or worst

      Word last!  How a lush-kept plush-capped sloe

         Will, mouthed to flesh-burst,

   Gush!—flush the man, the being with it, sour or sweet,

   Brim, in a flash, full!—Hither then, last or first,

      To hero of Calvary, Christ’s, feet—

Never ask if meaning it, wanting it, warned of it—men go.



            Be adored among men,

         God, three-numberèd form;

      Wring thy rebel, dogged in den,

         Man’s malice, with wrecking and storm.

   Beyond saying sweet, past telling of tongue,

   Thou art lightning and love, I found it, a winter and warm;

      Father and fondler of heart thou hast wrung:

Hast thy dark descending and most art merciful then.



            With an anvil-ding

         And with fire in him forge thy will

      Or rather, rather then, stealing as Spring

         Through him, melt him but master him still:

   Whether at once, as once at a crash Paul,

   Or as Austin, a lingering-out swéet skíll,

      Make mercy in all of us, out of us all

Mastery, but be adored, but be adored King.


part the second



            “Some find me a sword;  some

         The flange and the rail;  flame,

      Fang, or flood” goes Death on drum,

         And storms bugle his fame.

   But wé dream we are rooted in earth—Dust!

   Flesh falls within sight of us, we, though our flower the same,

      Wave with the meadow, forget that there must

The sour scythe cringe, and the blear share come.



            On Saturday sailed from Bremen,


      Take settler and seamen, tell men with women,

         Two hundred souls in the round—

   O Father, not under thy feathers nor ever as guessing

   The goal was a shoal, of a fourth the doom to be drowned;

      Yet did the dark side of the bay of thy blessing

Not vault them, the million of rounds of thy mercy not reeve even them in?



            Into the snows she sweeps,

         Hurling the haven behind,

      The Deutschland, on Sunday;  and so the sky keeps,

         For the infinite air is unkind,

   And the sea flint-flake, black-backed in the regular blow,

   Sitting Eastnortheast, in cursed quarter, the wind;

      Wiry and white-fiery and whirlwind-swivellèd snow

Spins to the widow-making unchilding unfathering deeps.



            She drove in the dark to leeward,

         She struck—not a reef or a rock

      But the combs of a smother of sand:  night drew her

         Dead to the Kentish Knock;

   And she beat the bank down with her bows and the ride of her keel;

   The breakers rolled on her beam with ruinous shock;

      And canvas and compass, the whorl and the wheel

Idle for ever to waft her or wind her with, these she endured.



            Hope had grown grey hairs,

         Hope had mourning on,

      Trenched with tears, carved with cares,

         Hope was twelve hours gone;

   And frightful a nightfall folded rueful a day

   Nor rescue, only rocket and lightship, shone,

      And lives at last were washing away:

To the shrouds they took,—they shook in the hurling and horrible airs.



            One stirred from the rigging to save

         The wild woman-kind below,

      With a rope’s end round the man, handy and brave—

         He was pitched to his death at a blow,

   For all his dreadnought breast and braids of thew:

   They could tell him for hours, dandled the to and fro

      Through the cobbled foam-fleece.  What could he do

With the burl of the fountains of air, buck and the flood of the wave?



            They fought with God’s cold—

         And they could not and fell to the deck

      (Crushed them) or water (and drowned them) or rolled

         With the sea-romp over the wreck.

   Night roared, with the heart-break hearing a heart-broke rabble,

   The woman’s wailing, the crying of child without check—

      Till a lioness arose breasting the babble,

A prophetess towered in the tumult, a virginal tongue told.



            Ah, touched in your bower of bone,

         Are you! turned for an exquisite smart,

      Have you! make words break from me here all alone,

         Do you!—mother of being in me, heart.

   O unteachably after evil, but uttering truth,

   Why, tears! is it? tears;  such a melting, a madrigal start!

      Never-eldering revel and river of youth,

What can it be, this glee? the good you have there of your own?



            Sister, a sister calling

         A master, her master and mine!—

      And the inboard seas run swirling and hawling;

         The rash smart sloggering brine

   Blinds her;  but she that weather sees one thing, one;

   Has one fetch in her:  she rears herself to divine

      Ears, and the call of the tall nun

To the men in the tops and the tackle rode over the storm’s brawling.



            She was first of a five and came

         Of a coifèd sisterhood.

      (O Deutschland, double a desperate name!

         O world wide of its good!

   But Gertrude, lily, and Luther, are two of a town,

   Christ’s lily and beast of the waste wood:

      From life’s dawn it is drawn down,

Abel is Cain’s brother and breasts they have sucked the same.)



            Loathed for a love men knew in them,

         Banned by the land of their birth,

      Rhine refused them, Thames would ruin them;

         Surf, snow, river and earth

   Gnashed:  but thou art above, thou Orion of light;

   Thy unchancelling poising palms were weighing the worth,

      Thou martyr-master:  in thy sight

Storm flakes were scroll-leaved flowers, lily-showers—sweet heaven was astrew in them.



            Five! the finding and sake

         And cipher of suffering Christ.

      Mark, the mark is of man’s make

         And the word of it Sacrificed.

   But he scores it in scarlet himself on his own bespoken,

   Before-time-taken, dearest prizèd and priced—

      Stigma, signal, cinquefoil token

For lettering of the lamb’s fleece, ruddying of the rose-flake.



            Joy fall to thee, father Francis,

         Drawn to the Life that died;

      With the gnarls of the nails in thee, niche of the lance, his

         Lovescape crucified

   And seal of his seraph-arrival! and these thy daughters

   And five-livèd and leavèd favour and pride,

      Are sisterly sealed in wild waters,

To bathe in his fall-gold mercies, to breathe in his all-fire glances.



            Away in the loveable west,

         On a pastoral forehead of Wales,

      I was under a roof here, I was at rest,

         And they the prey of the gales;

   She to the black-about air, to the breaker, the thickly

   Falling flakes, to the throng that catches and quails

      Was calling “O Christ, Christ, come quickly”:

The cross to her she calls Christ to her, christens her wild-worst Best.



            The majesty! what did she mean?

         Breathe, arch and original Breath.

      Is it love in her of the being as her lover had been?

         Breathe, body of lovely Death.

   They were else-minded then, altogether, the men

   Woke thee with a We are perishing in the weather of Gennesareth.

      Or is it that she cried for the crown then,

The keener to come at the comfort for feeling the combating keen?



            For how to the heart’s cheering

         The down-dugged ground-hugged grey

      Hovers off, the jay-blue heavens appearing

         Of pied and peeled May!

   Blue-beating and hoary-glow height;  or night, still higher,

   With belled fire and the moth-soft Milky Way,

      What by your measure is the heaven of desire,

The treasure never eyesight got, nor was ever guessed what for the hearing?



            No, but it was not these.

         The jading and jar of the cart,

      Time’s tasking, it is fathers that asking for ease

         Of the sodden-with-its-sorrowing heart,

   Not danger, electrical horror;  then further it finds

   The appealing of the Passion is tenderer in prayer apart:

      Other, I gather, in measure her mind’s

Burden, in wind’s burly and beat of endragonèd seas.



            But how shall I … make me room there:

         Reach me a … Fancy, come faster—

      Strike you the sight of it? look at it loom there,

         Thing that she … There then! the Master,

   Ipse, the only one, Christ, King, Head:

   He was to cure the extremity where he had cast her;

      Do, deal, lord it with living and dead;

Let him ride, her pride, in his triumph, despatch and have done with his doom there.



            Ah! there was a heart right!

         There was a single eye!

      Read the unshapeable shock night

         And knew the who and the why;

   Wording it how but by him that present and past,

   Heaven and earth are word of, worded by?—

      The Simon Peter of a soul! to the blast

Tarpeïan-fast, but a blown beacon of light.



            Jesu, heart’s light,

         Jesu, maid’s son,

      What was the feast followed the night

         Thou hadst glory of this nun?—

   Feast of the one woman without stain.

   For so conceivèd, so to conceive thee is done;

      But here was heart-throe, birth of a brain,

Word, that heard and kept thee and uttered thee outright.



            Well, she has thee for the pain, for the

         Patience;  but pity of the rest of them!

      Heart, go and bleed at a bitterer vein for the

         Comfortless unconfessed of them—

   No not uncomforted:  lovely-felicitous Providence

   Finger of a tender of, O of a feathery delicacy, the breast of the

      Maiden could obey so, be a bell to, ring of it, and

Startle the poor sheep back! is the shipwrack then a harvest, does tempest carry the grain for thee?



            I admire thee, master of the tides,

         Of the Yore-flood, of the year’s fall;

      The recurb and the recovery of the gulf’s sides,

         The girth of it and the wharf of it and the wall;

   Stanching, quenching ocean of a motionable mind;

   Ground of being, and granite of it:  past all

         Grasp God, throned behind

Death with a sovereignty that heeds but hides, bodes but abides;



            With a mercy that outrides

         The all of water, an ark

      For the listener;  for the lingerer with a love glides

         Lower than death and the dark;

   A vein for the visiting of the past-prayer, pent in prison,

   The-last-breath penitent spirits—the uttermost mark

      Our passion-plungèd giant risen,

The Christ of the Father compassionate, fetched in the storm of his strides.



            Now burn, new born to the world,

         Double-naturèd name,

      The heaven-flung, heart-fleshed, maiden-furled


   Mid-numberèd he in three of the thunder-throne!

   Not a dooms-day dazzle in his coming nor dark as he came;

      Kind, but royally reclaiming his own;

A released shower, let flash to the shire, not a lightning of fire hard-hurled.



            Dame, at our door

         Drowned, and among our shoals,

      Remember us in the roads, the heaven-haven of the reward:

         Our King back, Oh, upon English souls!

   Let him easter in us, be a day-spring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-

      cresseted east,

   More brightening her, rare-dear Britain, as his reign rolls,

      Pride, rose, prince, hero of us, high-priest,

Our heart’s charity’s hearth’s fire, our thought’s chivalry’s throng’s Lord.

Mystery Delete!

Our web host moved our sites to new servers, and in the process almost two months of my blogposts were lost. (Sari’s is still zir most recent one.) Mine were just further “grade A” poems, most of which can be found in my book Wings of the Gray Moon: New and Selected Poems. Newer poems are contained in IrretrievableSmall Amounts of Blood and The Shining Air. All these books are available on Amazon.

I had just put up the first entry in my amateur analysis of Hopkins’ “Wreck of the Deutschland,” so I have reposted that below. Second entry coming this Sunday.

The Wreck of the Deutschland (1)

Back when I was leading you through Otros, my collection of other people’s poems, I balked at saying anything about Hopkins’ “The Wreck of the Deutschland,” but promised that I’d try later.  Later is now.  I’ve never done this “close reading” kind of thing before, so bear with me if I do it poorly.  I’ll be relying on, and quoting from, the notes to the Fourth Edition of Hopkins’ Poems, edited by W.H. Gardner and N.H. MacKenzie, which incorporates notes from earlier editions edited by Robert Bridges and Charles Williams.  Otherwise this will record my own reactions to the poem.  I am not a Hopkins scholar or any kind of expert, only a lover of his verse, and this poem most of all.  I’ve had it by heart since the 1970s when I first read it.

My relationship with it is somewhat bittersweet, since when I first encountered it I was a committed Christian, and I long ago renounced Christianity and most of what it stands for.  “Wreck” is one of the strongest statements of Catholic Christianity I know, and to read or recite it is always to place myself back into a Catholic headspace and heart-space.  I appreciate the power of that space while I’m there.  The poem preserves and protects it.  I’ve had the weird experience of converting a student of mine to Christianity after abandoning it myself, and I imagine my deference to this poem might have the same effect on someone.  Religion in general has a conflicted interface with poetry:  the two could be considered enemies, fundamentally opposed ways of dealing with the world.  Hopkins, on that assumption, destroyed his early work upon entering Jesuit training and spent close to a decade thinking about poetry but writing none.  When he began again, with this poem, he had apparently lost all his doubt that poetry could be a perfect expression, even the highest possible expression, of Christian belief and life—not only its triumphant moments, as here, but also the darkness and dread recorded in the socalled “terrible sonnets” he wrote toward the end of his life.  I think his poetry demonstrates, beyond any question, how possible, even how seeming-necessary it is that poetry and religion can and should dovetail, in a religious poet at least.

“Wreck” is the first example of a poem written in what Hopkins called “sprung rhythm,” which goes back to the Anglo-Saxon standard of counting stresses rather than syllables.  He instructs us to read each stanza as a unit, not pausing at the end of lines (sometimes an end rhyme will be completed in the next line!), but putting more emphasis on the stressed syllables than one would in reading through a prose passage.  In Part the First the stanzas have the following number of stresses in each line:  2,3,4,3,5,5,4,6.  In Part the Second the first line has three stresses instead of two.  The rhyme scheme is ABABCBCA.

Hopkins describes the composition of the poem this way:  “ … when in the winter of [18]75 the Deutschland was wrecked in the mouth of the Thames and five Franciscan nuns, exiles from Germany by the [anti-Catholic] Falck Laws, aboard of her were drowned I was affected by the account and happening to say so to my rector he said that he wished someone would write a poem on the subject.  On this hint I set to work and, though my hand was out at first, produced one.  I had long had haunting my ear the echo of a new rhythm which now I realized on paper … I do not say the idea is altogether new … but no one has professedly used it and made it the principle throughout, that I know of … However, I had to mark the stresses … and a great many more oddnesses could not but dismay an editor’s eye, so that when I offered it to [the Jesuit] magazine the Month … they … dared not print it.”  The key passage from the report of the shipwreck in The Times reads:  “Five German nuns … clasped hands and were drowned together, the chief sister, a gaunt woman 6 ft. high, calling out loudly and often ‘O Christ, come quickly!’ till the end came.”

Next time I’ll give you the entire poem, then focus in on the stanzas, five at a time every entry.

Grade A: Peace

Written in Albuquerque (Terrace SE), April 2007.  “Deep down the high brightness” is a conscious echo of a line from Hopkins’ “God’s Grandeur,” “there lives the dearest freshness deep down things.”  Published in my books The Hardest Thing and Wings of the Gray Moon.



Not quite noon,

the earth still toppling away from night,

the dead middle of night

where the sun sits.

The dead housefinch in my driveway

hasn’t been disturbed by any violence,

even a death in midair.

Really, it looks like it walked there

and huddled asleep like a human,

a shoulder lifted a bit

to shade the glare of cracked mud,

its onedimensional feet flung limp

as if sleep finally couldn’t be fought.

I scrape it into a bag

of course

and convey it to the dumpster

saying I’m Sorry to the empty world

and it fits and falls there,

this time it falls,

between a pizza delivery box

and the box a pump-up air mattress came in.

Another slit of harsh redbrown

deep down the high brightness.

I think

I am thinking of peace.

Grade A: Earth [from Yossele]

Written in Albuquerque (Terrace SE), February 2007.  After the threat to the Jewish community is removed, the life is taken out of the golem.  These are his meditations slightly before that event.  Published in Yossele and Wings of the Gray Moon.

Earth                                                                                                          The Golem


I know it will be soon.


I would like to go for a walk in the whistling air.


I would like to hear the boys sounding out the funny Hebrew

that isn’t so funny to me.


I would like to run my finger over petals again.


I would like to lean on a tree

as I have done,

two still living things, unprotected.


I would like to clap my shoes on cobbles.

No clap like it.


Cloud shows and hides, shows and hides the moon.

I think it is a brilliant eye that tries to see us

but the night is too black

and after a month of trying it dozes off.


I think the houses are shells for the breaths of children.


I think the roads are one road plotted by rain

which is the dream of the ocean.


I would like to have seen the ocean.


I would like to have had a bird in my hands for a moment

so my hands could be ears.


I would like to understand why it’s a matter for laughter

when a man chases his hat.


Why real laughter dwells in the eyes unheard.


Why ten men don’t gather around the small dog smashed under a cartwheel

to say Kaddish.


Why the new smell of bread makes me shake and shake.


Why no one has ever addressed a question to me.

I would like to be unable to answer.

Grade A: Shabbat [from Yossele]

Written in Albuquerque (Terrace SE), February 2007.  This poem cycle about the golem of Prague was a collaboration with my partner Sari.  I wrote all the poems in the golem’s voice.  Sari remembered that it was a son-in-law, not a son, who assisted at the creation of the golem, and made that clear in one of zir poems, so this poem’s vague inaccuracy on that point can stand.  I’d also forgotten that, according to Sari, the rabbi had originally installed the golem in the schoolroom—but the poem ze wrote before I wrote this one had him being moved to the house:  one of the many serendipities that attended our mutual composition of this book, despite the fact that we didn’t see or discuss each other’s poems in progress.  Published in our book Yossele.

Shabbat                                                                                                   The Golem


On Shabbat

I don’t go out on patrol.

Master’s conscience couldn’t push

even a dead thing in his home

that far outside his ways.

I am, then, observant.

No, I can’t share the meal,

recite the benedictions,

know what it is

to be gathered in family

like a quilt against the chill.

The chill is my dwelling.

Master’s children are grown

and helped him bring me,

so from them I don’t sense the dread

small ones would feel

when the angels are asked to the table

and instead this, this,

comes to sit.

Then after the house is abed

I sit alone

on the end of my cot

in my room

alone with Him.

And my room is the world.

And the world is His room

where He sits on the end of His cot.

And neither of us has a name

those hours

and those hours don’t stop for us.

No lights are lit

by any mother’s hand.

On the six days

He made all the others.

On the seventh day

He knew He was still alone.

Grade A: Cafeteria

Written in Albuquerque (Terrace SE), January 2007.  Written in the Student Services building at CNM.  Published in my books The Hardest Thing and Wings of the Gray Moon.



Time is feeble and stiff.

The coarse-natured beauty leans forehead on weightless hand

till one of an infinite number of kids with military hair

cuts my view of her,

sitting by someone he calls “G.”

In spasms of air between the bustling crewcuts

the beauty checks her raccoonish mascara,

her candy-lime coat the color of her deft boredom.

Everyone’s arranged in rows

for life

which must be nearby.

Grade A: Beatrice

Written in Albuquerque (Terrace SE), November 2006.  I was telling the story of Dante and Beatrice to my Humanities class and suddenly got sick of this, well, abuse of a girl who was probably quite ordinary.  Most people I’ve ever fallen in love with have been!  Published in my books The Hardest Thing and Wings of the Gray Moon, and in the local zine Central Avenue.



She was probably like other girls,

Dante’s ten thousand stanzas notwithstanding.

She probably did spot the sickly boy in the street

but it wouldn’t have occurred to her she caused the sickly.

When she smiled at him,

that was manners,

when she gave him the cold front,

she had her period that day.

More than anything she thought about clothes,

giggled at the idea of bodyparts

with her nastier girlfriends.

She went to church,

but to study the fine women’s intricate hairdos,

not because any kind of paradise

was her real home.

To such a wisp

theology’d just be scary.

And so would poetry.  And rightly.

She knew how she was supposed to act

when the sun came out, when the snow came down,

and how she liked to act.

She married, as far as we know,

obeying her parents,

and she died, we do know this,

still teenaged,

obeying her God.

A Christian child

but a child.

Love kept outside of her probably,

respecting her play,

her silence.

She never found out her silence had been broken

these seven hundred years.

Grade A: A Continent

Written in Albuquerque (Terrace SE), October 2005.  Published in my books If I Could Be the Stone and Wings of the Gray Moon, and in the local zine Central Avenue.

A Continent


I have watched Africa creep closer,

then back away again.


(Or one of many Africas.

  There are more small ones than I know about, probably.)


Mother’s bones are there somewhere

of course, her ingenious straight bones.


And something that unleashes red-eyed men is there,

their swords fast and heavy through meat like the meat of flowers.


And the things that group in the high grass are there.

I am already getting my carcass picked beneath a tree shaped like burnt lightning.


And there are swords that buzz like flies

and work in babies’ blood.


I am not bothered by the years on years I sidled against its West shores in my fat ship.

I am not bothered, I am lifted, by its great scream of prevailing.


I think instead—though the light is insecure—it is really

a tattoo on the back of my hand, the shape of Africa, that creeps close and backs away, that I don’t remember getting.


I am afraid my own hand is slapping out screams

that will need to be followed.


(Or one of my many hands.

  They multiplied in my absence, while I waited for Africa.)

Grade A: Kitsch Construction, Regina, Jemez, 1968

Written in Albuquerque (Terrace SE), September 2005.  Published in my books If I Could Be the Stone and Wings of the Gray Moon.

Kitsch Construction, Regina, Jemez, 1968


October has that

juicy dawn cold

the mountains like to keep to themselves.

The aspens are flaring like a wick losing oil.

John quips to his brother

who’s not ramming the posthole digger

hard as he can

and who’s just come off his honeymoon,

“Too much pussy, Dave.”

“Too much work” Dave comes back.

“Not enough pussy.”

My arms are memorizing these plunges

for the first time

and already long to forget.

John’s burnt about having to get this done

with a soft city kid,

his lazyass sibling

and a fourth crew who hasn’t even shown yet,

who’ll shatter into the bunkhouse tonight

after the mountains are ink,

whiskeyed off the vertical,

and ask directions to whatever food I’ve got,

rummage thru PopTarts and scowl

“What is this shit.”

The aspens will expect me to quit in the morning.

Grade A: Broken Glass

Written in Albuquerque (Terrace SE), July 2005.  The fire in my backyard mentioned in “Against the Drone” left innumerable bits of glass from the trash dump that used to be there.  As much as I took out, there always seemed to be more.  Published in my books If I Could Be the Stone and Wings of the Gray Moon.

Broken Glass


My back lot

is a purity

of dead voracious sun

and sidelong glass sliver

and much of the glass

refinedly pounded into

sugary uncutting cubes.


I’m selecting this

atom by atom

slice by slice

for a plastic bag

and I hear the city workers

laying pipe a block up

jeering on their lunchhour

in shadow of hedge

and young mimosa

across the front street, one

keeping his hardhat on


and when a tall

college girl passes

dressed for July

they try not to be stereotypes

and only turn their eyes

and whisper evaluations

once her back’s to them.


I can’t see any of this

from where I am.

I’m not hiding

but hidden.

My lowered flesh

sows the ground

with salt.